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13th July
2012
posted by amber

I Hate Guns

“Try this on for size,” the fellow behind the counter at the sports emporium said.

“Well,” I remarked, reaching out despite my obvious hesitation, “if one is going to enjoy holiday in Texas, why not do as all Texans – maybe all Americans – do and touch a gun?”

He nodded, not sure if I’d just insulted him and his countrymen.

I picked up the gun. I held the gun. I pointed the gun and pretended to pull the trigger.

“Hold on there, little lady,” the fellow said. “Never point a gun like that unless you mean business.”

“Mean business?”

“Mean to shoot something, or somebody. Would you like to try it?”

I put the gun down. “Try what?”

“Shooting her? We’ve got a range in the back.”

I figured he didn’t mean shooting a literal ‘her.’ Guns were female, it seemed. I shook my head to decline the offer. “Oh no, I don’t really believe in guns.”

“Why not, little lady?” He sounded less affable than before.

“I don’t believe in using violence to resolve conflict.” I knew I wasn’t successfully hiding my attitude of superiority.

He frowned, leaning forward. “What if you found yourself caught in one of those situations where a wacko goes postal? If you had a gun, you might be able to defend yourself and others.”

“More likely I’d shoot the wrong person, or myself in the foot,” I laughed, watching him unbend a bit.

“All the more reason to get a feel for it. You never know, you might like it.”

“Well, I plinked cans with my uncle’s 22 when I was ten, and I’ve watched those cop shows on TV – you know, the ones where the female cop turns out to be a dead-eye shot, putting all her bullets in the heart of the paper man-shaped target.”

“You’re a bit tempted, admit it.”

Still, I hesitated. “I’d be wasting your time. You have real customers waiting. I’m just a tourist.”

All the other clerks at the gun counter were busy. The place was hopping.

“Come on,” he wheedled.

“Oh, okay.”

“Do you want to try this one? I don’t think it’s too big for you to handle. Let’s get some bullets for you, then I’ll call Jordan to take you back to the range. But don’t you pick it up until you’re back there, little lady. It is a dangerous weapon.”

Once the bullets were in, Bill stepped up behind me from the spot where he’d been lurking, pretending to look at camo knickknacks.

He took the gun and told the fellow, “This is a hold-up.”

I hate guns. Bill doesn’t.

This is a new story.

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